If You Ever Run
by Hexametaphosphate
Summary: Time seems to pick up the pace when one turns thirty. Working for a major manga publishing company at its USA headquarters in New York City, Toru braves the crowds by the lead of his long time friend, Shihodani. Plagued by cryptic dreams, he searches for the perfect balance between friends, family, work, and love.
1. As You Were

_Birds chirping; gentle breezes caressing the sides of a house; early morning sunlight casting warmth against window panes as they release the chill of the fleeting night. All these things combined make the flora outside seem much closer, as if the tree line of the forest was at the foot of the bed, its furry and feathered inhabitants scurrying about their meticulous morning routines._

_Take in a deep breath... No, even deeper. Not just the trees, but their roots. Breath in deeper with your lips parted and swallow the dirt as you dive farther._

_No, even farther —_

"Shit."

I'm barely finished rubbing the sleep away from my eyes when the concept of time crosses my groggy mind. The same sensation that had woke me from my dreams struck when I realize I'm already late for work. A noise of dismay sounds from my throat, fingers slipping through my hair in a habit I had gained only after moving to New York. The endless stress of publishing a volume of manga monthly has affected me in ways that even I hadn't noticed until Shihodani had brought them to my attention.

Stumbling through my studio apartment to get ready for work, I'm aware of how different the mornings are here, so deep in the heart of the city. The first few months felt like this, but the dreams started six months ago. By then I had gotten used to it. The sound of constant traffic, the mumble of humans as their feet walk and mouths talk; I had grown to live with the pulsing heart beat of city that never slept. Despite working in Tokyo for five years, and living on its outskirts, New York City was truly something else to behold.

I don't know why the dreams speak me to me now. The mornings they wake me, they occupy my mind as I prepare for the day and head to work. It's not like I'm that much of an outdoor-sy person, and I often return to Japan — to the very room in which I find myself during my recurring dream. Over and over, I try to decipher its meaning. Over and over, I come to the same san-answer conclusion.

The dream weighs heavily on my shoulders as I depart from the apartment building and onto the city's streets, already teeming with hurried footsteps. I slip into the current, fluidly, with a grace that almost reaches the league of Shihodani's own. This, however, he refuses to acknowledge, and insists on reminding me of the first few weeks after my arrival.

_"Hey dickweed, watch it!—"_

_Swivel, search, a look of confusion—_

_"... excuse me—!"_

_Bump, stumble, strong fingers encircling my arm and steadying me. Shihodani's confidence pulls us through the murmuring stream. There's an amused look curving the corners of his lips and turns the corners of my own into a childlike frown._

_"You'll get used to it, Tocchan," he speaks in a tone easily mistaken for condescension. Or maybe that's exactly what it is._

Looking back now, it makes me chuckle. I was embarrassed to seem so foreign, to not be a part of the pulse that was New York, but the attitude was different from that of Tokyo. The crowds here were not nearly as polite. Then again, I had been a stumbling idiot those first few weeks. Can I really fault them for letting etiquette slip?

The screeching halt of the subway pulls me back from my thoughts, and I join the influx of passengers, securing myself a seat not far from the doors. A yawn escapes me as I take the time to text Shihodani an apology for my lateness. Thirty minutes past nine, and I'm still 20 away.

Make that twenty-five. I better get coffee or I may not make it to lunch with a pulse still in my throat.


	2. Mercy Me

Three minutes 'till ten. Crap.

The elevator simply could not come fast enough. Twice now the urge to press the already lit up button again has held me in its grips. _Crap_. Two minutes. I'm itching to press that button once more, that taunting up arrow, all aglow as if it's doing something when in actuality it's just working against me, eager for Shihodani to bestow his wrath on my poor, wretched soul—

_Ding._

My feet couldn't move fast enough. A handful of others piled in, people I hadn't even noticed gather around me, too deep in my own panic to care. As the doors shut I let my eyes fall; my hand reaches out to press the seven and sink into the corner, watching painfully as the others depart. I'm sure by now the dread I feel is visible, tangible even. And once the doors open to the seventh floor I dart into the offices beyond, feeling as if my tangible dread was attached at my ankles like weights trying to delay my arrival.

_One minute_. Whatever powers that be, please let his fury be swift.

"Toru!" a friendly voice calls from the grouping of desks from our department's cubicle. The warm tone catches me off guard and when I meet its owner's eyes I'm temporarily at a loss for words.

"Oh, hey, Topher." My eyes quickly dart to the end of the cubicle, where Yujirou's desk resides, only to find that he's not there. In fact, neither are any of his things—

"You're in luck, Shihodani's been in a meeting since the moment he got here."

Relieved beyond comprehensible measures, I take a seat at my desk and sip the coffee I had gotten for him. I don't even like pumpkin spice, and yet the sip of his favorite fall-flavored beverage tasted refreshing; a tribute to my relief that Shihodani would not discover this morning had started late. The sound of Topher's laughter hits my ears and I shoot him a glare. It shuts him up and his gaze returns to the manuscript at his desk but it doesn't change his amused expression. Only then do I let myself smile at my surprisingly good fortune.

_Good fortune_. Did I really say that? My smile quickly disperses when I look at my own travesty of a manuscript. Good fortune, my ass. "This author is hopeless," I utter, disheartened. A soft chortle sounds from my co-worker, so conveniently located next to me; a rough punch to his arm rewards me with another, much more pleasing noise, and silences him so that only the sound of turning pages and furious red pens sound.

Fingers slide through my locks, though they catch me off guard; those fingers aren't mine. "Oi, what do you thi—"

A soft breeze brushes past me, golden locks of silk-like hair falling over my shoulder, as Shihodani looks over my shoulder to study the red-laden papers before me. Though his eyes are solely focused on the work laid on the desk I know the smirk on his lips is just for me. I can't control the frown already working its way at the corners of my lips, knowing full well that he has every intention of rubbing in my face the fact that I might be working late tonight. If you've ever thought having your best friend as your boss would be a plus, then you are sadly mistaken.

"Tch. Did she even listen to you? You'll have to get your artist under control." He pauses, I turn to face him as he stands straight once more and there's a taunt on the tip of his tongue. "I'll come with you to visit her after lunch. We need this piece finished by the end of the month and it can't be changed." He gives me his own brand of an amused look, as if his restraint were a gift I should be thankful for.

Over the years we've grown closer as friends. I know him almost as well as I know myself, and the same can be said on his part. But, the closeness was a double-edged sword. Ah yes, he was my best friend, and that wouldn't change; no matter the circumstances I know this man would have my back. However, his ability to get under my skin with taunts— and his pleasure in doing so— seemed mount the closer we got. Not that I mind it, of course. Even now it makes me smile. It would be a boring friendship if all we did was compliment each other. The only thing that gets to me is how easily he does it while we work, surrounded by our co-workers and the higher-ups. Everything about him is utterly and tirelessly professional when it comes to publishing the magazine, and he does it so splendidly that it doesn't at all dispute the fact he gained the title of Editor-in-Chief in the span of two years. But Shihodani always has time to mess with me.

Always.

I watch as he returns to his desk, setting his things down and adjusting the stacks of books, magazines, and manuscripts that always seem to pile up the first week of the cycle. It brings a pause to my previous thoughts, and a slightly perplexed expression. Even with meetings at the beginning of the day, he always took the time to organize his things and make a schedule for the day. If he hadn't, it could only mean...

_Was he late too?_

His gaze moves towards my direction as if he knows exactly what conclusions I've come to. I avert it, momentarily thankful that the mess of a manuscript in my possession exists to keep me occupied for the rest of the day. Well, until he accompanies me to meet the author. I'll give him shit for it later; if I did it here he might have my head on a platter for lunch and meet her without me.

"Alright, here's the schedule."

* * *

By the time we'd left the small coffee shop, night had fallen and blanketed the city's skyscrapers in a starless black. Our fingers curled tighter around the warmth of our drinks to-go, the chill of winter to come in the October air. The author took more than a moment of our time to persuade into fixing the manuscript once more. Shihodani's finesse was a sight to behold, and not at all worn down by the fact that he had much more duties to attend to as Editor-in-Chief. I have a knack for it myself, that's why I find myself here in the same office as he is, but what I have through practiced skill he has in natural born talent. That impossible grace and poise, that reserved attitude in the face of adversity, and his swift abilities to remedy any situation. Whenever I bring it up he simply blames his confidence, though I suspect that even a googolplex of confidence could not give me a foot up on the man. If it were anyone else I'd be bothered, but with Shihodani it's comforting.

"How late were you?" I finally have the courage to ask. After weighing the risks against what I could possibly gain by obtaining such knowledge all afternoon, it simply could not compare to my curiosity... What was it that killed the cat now?—

Shihodani's soft chuckle interrupts the wind's blowing and steals my gaze away from the path ahead. "Fourteen minutes." His own eyes stay straight ahead, towards the street we cross as we leave the dimly lit park. The thought of Shihodani— Yujirou, the Iron Fist Editor-in-Chief who swiftly punishes the tardiness of his subordinates— being late, and nearly late enough for someone to notice, amuses me deeply. I can't help the grin that spreads on my lips as we climb the steps to his townhouse.

"Just in time for no one to notice, damn."

"Ah yes, and _you_ made it just in time for me not to notice how late you were," he replies, the tone of his voice even softer than before. A tone that sounds deceivingly sweet and gentle, and usually is anything but. This is one of those times.

His arm stretches around me and his hand falls heavily on my shoulder, his face aglow with a smile much like the dazzling ones he sent the way of his admirers back in high school; it inspires a deep, dark depth of dread to well up inside me. "This is a trap, isn't it? I'm never going to leave this townhouse," I speak in half-serious dismay.

Shihodani's sweet, two-sided laughter echoes in the small foyer as he pulls us both inside and shuts the door behind us. His arm retreats as he strips off his jacket, and I mock his actions. "Maybe. Being an hour late is quite severe." He hanged his light grey coat and slid his fingertips through the length of his hair as he tucked it behind his ear, expelling a soft sigh. "But I'll let it slide this one time. The way you handled Anika was brilliant. You buttered her up real nice for me," he explains, the look on his face a devilish one, though anyone else would mistake it for innocence.

"I doubt you're going to leave it at that," I mutter as he passes me for the kitchen. He laughs and I hang my coat with his before joining him.

"Probably not," he retorts absentmindedly, absorbed in the contents of his fridge. A soft mew sounds before his furball, Mayhem joins us and perches atop the corner of the kitchen island for me to give him attention. His purr sounds loudly as I scratch his ears lovingly, attracting Shihodani's attention once he places down the ingredients he's retrieved. "I have to admit, I was a bit harsh last time. August was a terrible month, even I had trouble soothing Jeremy's panicked authors."

I tilt my head in agreement. "Yeah, but you've done worse. Regardless, it's a good thing last month went much more smoothly. Otherwise I might be the main course for tonight's dinner."

Yujirou turns away as a smirk finds its way home on his features, fingers diving into his pockets for a hair tie and using it to pull back his locks in a ponytail. "Yes, lucky for you, Toru. Fettuccine Alfredo is on the menu tonight, paired with fresh green beans and a simple ceaser salad." He grabs the aprons hanging by the fridge and tosses mine to me. "Prepare the vegetables, will you?"

"But of course," I answer, securing the apron at my waist.


	3. Settle For Satin

Shihodani's focus and determination are not limited to his job.

Half the pleasure of sharing a meal with him is watching him make it. Fifteen years as friends and you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it always makes me smile and chuckle. He hardly notices, so invested in completing his culinary feats. This one in particular seems to matter greatly; this particular recipe came from none other than the president of our headquarters himself. To be exact, it's his mother's, a woman whose parents had migrated to the states from Italy. The night before he'd prepared most of components; everything seemed to be hand-made and authentic— so much so that I was more impressed than usual. Frank Sinatra resonated within the walls of the cozy townhouse as he boiled the water and shaped the pasta into meticulously perfect rectangles. The creamy white sauce heated and thickened nearby, and the green beans baked to perfection while I found myself preparing the salad. At this point all conversation had ceased and Yujirou had become absorbed in his role as top chef, just as he always did any role he assumed. Since meeting him years ago it has always been a thing I've admired and try to do so myself. I've learned from him that your endeavors should not be half-assed... Sometimes I think I benefit from this friendship far more than he does. The thought causes me to grin, and as I bring forth the finishing touches to our first course Shihodani breaks free of his trance.

"I think I've done this recipe justice," he finally says, his soft spoken voice cutting gently through Sinatra's serenade. I glance over as he places the glass pan full of delicious smelling green beans down, a satisfied look on his features. "Though you'll have to confirm that for me—"

I don't even let him finish his sentence completely, I've already been drawn closer by the garlic aroma wafting upwards from the veggies he's conjured up. "Confirmed." Shihodani just laughs and shakes his head, grabbing plates from the cupboards and beginning to dish out portions.

"There's a bottle of wine in the fridge Tanaka gave me for this last month's success, grab it, will you? Oh, glasses too."

I nod though he isn't looking and do as he asks, noticing that the red wine I'm holding is worth at least half of my last paycheck. "Jesus Christ," I mutter. Shihodani chuckles as he glides past me towards the living room, hands full with our plates.

* * *

"Definitely confirmed?"

Shihodani looks over at me as if the answer is unclear; my plate is now utterly spotless, as if it were clean and had nothing on it to begin with. "Stupid question." He grins instantly, hand moving to tuck a bit of stray hair behind his ear, satisfied with my response. His confidence vitalized, he stands straight, grabbing both of our plates and flatware on his way to the kitchen. I'm stranded on the couch, immobilized by the food I had consumed far too fast, and far too much of. "If publishing doesn't work out for you, I suggest opening your own Italian restaurant," I call out to the kitchen. His laughter chimes through the townhouse and I sprawl across the couch, eyes falling shut as the affect of the wine sloshes through me with the movement. Content and pleasantly exhausted, I don't think I'll be going anywhere else tonight. As if he knows exactly what I've just thought, Shihodani returns, hands on his hips as they cock into place.

"I don't think you're going anywhere tonight. I simply won't allow it." I don't have to open my eyes to see the grin that accompanies his words, but I open my eyes anyway. It's an expression he saves for just me— that unbridled, unadulterated expression of child-like joy that contradicts his default stoic mode. "Being so busy last month, we barely saw each other even at work."

"Oh god, I imagine that was torture," I reply, rolling onto my side and hugging the small throw pillow underneath my head.

He plops down sideways into the arm chair next to me, legs dangling over one side while his head falls backwards atop the other, humming out softly in thought. "You can say that again. Board meetings are stiff as fuck. Even Tanaka was more serious than usual. With the economy in the state it is, there's been a lot of pressure from our Tokyo counterpart to perform well." He pauses, reaching for his wine glass and draining its remnants. "But with the numbers pouring in from this last issue, I think we're in the clear."

"Mmhm," I mumble in response, exhaustion lining the edges of my lids. The last thing I hear before I drift to sleep is the sound of a soft chuckle at my expense.

* * *

The night came swiftly and enveloped us in its chilled arms.

Frost began to dance its way along the window panes in patterns too small to discern. By this time Toru was passed out cold; all the good wine went straight to his head. And as a result, that sweet boy lay limp on my couch, as vulnerable as ever. Fifteen years spent in each other's company made his walls fall down till only the last bits of them remained; he was vulnerable in every sense of the word, and this fact shone brightly to me, even in the midst of my own intoxicated state. _Vulnerable. Sweet, vulnerable Toru._ The world became sweeter each time I thought of it. I spoke the world out into the silence that only a quiet stereo broke:

"Vulnerable, Tocchan."

My chin came to rest against the palm of my hand, elbow propped on the arm of the chair I occupied, something between a smile and a smirk tugging at my lips. He continued to slumber obliviously, shifting in his sleep and nuzzling into the throw pillow he'd taken hostage when unconsciousness took its hold on him. _Vulnerable, Tocchan. Oh so vulnerable._

Here I am calling this boy defenseless when I had become defenseless myself. Somewhere down the road I began to realize that maybe I needed him as much as he needed me. If not more. His words and presence soothed the aches of growing up, kept my hopes from falling to dreadful depths during struggles I could never quite speak of. And somehow he always sensed them, too. School, jobs, other friends, family. Whatever it was, he picked up on it and whatever he chose to do or say was always the right thing. And the longer we spent together, the better he was at it. Often he compliments me, and I see the way he looks at me like I'm something wonderful to behold; I wonder if he ever remembers to think highly of himself, just as he should. I wonder if he has any clue at all how fondly I regard him, how I see him as my equal— and in some ways, my superior.

These thoughts continue to swirl in my mind until sleep begins to call my name sweetly. I let a yawn escape as I stand, and after a moment's thought, gently pull the sleeping boy into my arms and off the couch. "Come now, Toru, I'm far better to my house guests than to let them sleep on my couch," I murmur, though my voice doesn't seem to reach him in his sleep; he only curls into my form subconsciously, a sound between a sigh and a moan recklessly falling from his slightly parted lips. Rose petals. They look soft and full, pretty enough to notice yet unobtrusive to his handsome, masculine features that had developed during our college years. No longer was Toru the same little boy I met as a first year. No, certainly not...

_Fuck._ I realize I've stood in the same place this whole time, too distracted to make a single foot step. "Too much wine, far too much," I sigh with a chuckle, peeling my eyes away from the boy to navigate the already dimmed room. Once up the small flight of stairs I nudge the door of the guest bedroom open by my hip. He settles into the bed the moment I let him down and it makes me smile. Toru always looks so innocent in his sleep. He always looks innocent, even when he tries to give me a dirty look, but at his most vulnerable state his innocence seems to increase tenfold. As if he's something too delicate for my eyes to behold. "Sweet dreams, Tocchan," I whisper as I tuck the blankets around his lean frame and brush the hair from his eyes, momentarily resting the palm of my hand at the top of his forehead as I press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. He nuzzles into my touch as he sleeps and for a brief moment I start to think he's woken up— but no, he's still fast asleep, the call of food, wine, and exhaustion far more alluring than I.

The mere thought of his exhaustion makes my own much more clearer. I force myself to leave before crawling into the same satin sheets that Tocchan now slumbers in. Even when I pry my eyes away and shut the door quietly behind me, the urge lingers; a warm body on a chilly night is more than just a simple temptation. But logic clicks into place as sleep threatens to take hold once more. I strip and fall into my own bed, face pressed into the cool pillows entirely for a few brief moments.

_Now's not the time to get distracted by such things._


	4. Time To Waste (I)

_"Sweet dreams, Tocchan."_

_"Yujirou..."_

The sounds of the city outside filter through window in a muted fashion, hitting my ears as the edges of sleep fall away from the corners of my eyes. The heavy curtains still hung at the sides of the window, so the morning's light comes through, but still dimly enough not to be jarring. Even so, that little bit of light beckons a dull ache in my skull. "Yujirou," I speak the name once more, but then my eyes open again, much more alert to actually take in my surroundings. This is the guest bedroom, not the living room; I'm in a bed, not on a couch. He'd never be so impolite as to leave his house guests on the couch when there was an empty bed for them to sleep in. In fact, he'd probably give up his own bed if need be— even for a stranger. It makes me smile because Shihodani doesn't seem like the kind of guy to be so sweet and hospitable. The walls he hides himself behind, his almost always professional attitude, make him seem too shut off from the world to care for the rest of its inhabitants. But I know better than that. He's just as sensitive as the rest of us. The only difference is that he knows how to keep it to himself.

Traces of bacon waft through the air and it lures me out from the warmth of the sheets. Still in yesterday's clothes, I pad my way downstairs and the sinful smell is accompanied with sizzling. But over that I can hear Shihodani's humming, a soft melody beneath his breath, something I've heard many times over the years. I stand against the archway between the living room and the kitchen just to listen. It doesn't take too long for him to turn and notice that I'm there. He sends a knowing smirk my way and gracefully glides through the kitchen as he pulls out plates, cups, flatware. He makes a little gesture to the bottle of pills at the edge of the island, knowing full well I'll need them. By the time I've got a couple in my hands he's filled one glass with water and pushed it in my direction. His attention turns back to the food, dishing out the eggs, hash browns, and bacon. "Did I last very long?" I ask, breaking the silence before swallowing the little red pills.

Shihodani chuckles, hands grabbing the full plates. "Long enough stuff your face and imply how horrible it is to be deprived of my wonderful self." He gives me a smug look as he passes me by for the living room. The condiments are my charge and I follow, letting a moment pass as I try to remember the night before, what it was exactly that I had said.

_"I imagine that was torture."_

I smile to myself as we both take our seats. He hands me my plate and take a bite, feeling Shihodani's eyes scan over me.

_"You can say that again."_

"I may have implied it, but you confirmed your own depravity." He scoffs at my words but there's a smile on his lips, which only encourages mine. We both laugh and relax into the comfort of the cushions behind us, conversation losing against our desires to stuff our faces.

* * *

When we finish, Shihodani disappears with our dishes into the kitchen, refusing my help and instead telling me to shower up for the day. He demands that I spend the day with him; I spend no time trying to find an excuse and do as he says. Not that I had any other plans. The rest of our office wouldn't be back from their trip until Monday afternoon, and what little friends I made outside of work were busy themselves. The situation is befitting, since most of my time is spent on work that I find myself being too busy to see them more often than not. The thought makes me smile wistfully and run my fingers through my hair as I top the stairs and break into my stash of spare clothes in the guest bedroom. "Tch." My brows furrow after realizing I had no shirts left, but it's not much of an issue. It's merely a prime excuse to steal back one of my shirts from Yujirou.

I pop my head out into the hallway, listening for the sound of running water and dishes clinking together. Ah, yes, he's still busy. With a grin I dash across the hall and into his closet, rummaging through the shirts briefly until my fingers grasp the edges of a black Middle Finger Salute shirt. I tug it off the hanger and haul it into the master bathroom. I figure if he's making me shower here, I'm going to do it in style. His tastes are always exquisite, and I have yet to find anything he likes that I can't find agreeable myself. His choice in decoration, furniture pieces, and fixtures are always spot on. Somehow he manages to find the perfect balance between modern and classic. Clean whites and rich woods with bold pops of colors in between.

I strip and leave my clothes in the hamper across from the shower, stretch and let out a yawn I'd been holding in all morning as I piss the rest of the wine from the night before. The faucet's already turned, the water heated up to temp by the time I step in. For a moment I just stand there, letting the spray soak me completely. The wet warmth soothes away the remnants of sleep out of my limbs. The aches from hunching over my desk at work fall away as the rhythmic fall of the water kneads out the tension in my muscles. I dare say Yujirou's shower head is much nicer than mine. I huff to myself at this fact, noting mentally to buy a new one when I get the chance.

The door to the bathroom opens then and he busies himself at the vanity, not even bothering to address the fact that I'm there for the first time. I grin to myself, he's gotten used to the fact that I will always use his bathroom's shower.

* * *

I can hear his footsteps as he crosses the hall upstairs, knowing exactly where he intends to go for his shower. His detour to my closet doesn't get past me. He thinks the running water is enough to mask his actions and I find it rather cute. Some things about Toru never change. He has this way of seeming impossibly mature for his age, while at the same time still holding onto the spark that's been in him since the day we met. That spark of a young soul which brings out the youth in my old one. Over the years I've found we're quite alike, but little things still separate us. Not enough to cause any trouble. If anything, the small differences between us make him that much more interesting to me. Something about that boy draws me towards him, has kept me by his side all these years. It must be the same for him; he could have worked at any publisher and he chose Kodansha. When they transferred me to New York he could have stayed in Tokyo, but he followed.

Then again, he could have his own reasons for choosing to leave Japan completely unrelated to me.

When the last of the dishes are on the drying rack I make my way upstairs, entering the bathroom and ignoring the naked man inhabiting my shower. _Vulnerable._ The word flashes through my mind when I pick up my tooth brush. I force myself to focus on the reflection before me as I brush my teeth, but I can't help glancing at his clouded silhouette. His arm stretches to turn off the water and that's when I move my eyes back to the mirror. He steps out and the urge to turn my head is not at all a small one. Years of being such good friends, his naked form isn't at all a sight I've never seen; in our younger years it wasn't uncommon to do foolish things, the sort of tomfoolery that any young man in his late teens and early twenties would do. But my curiosity is always there, lingering, hoping for another chance to graze his pale flesh once more. A moment later and he comes into view, his reflection beside mine in the mirror, towel wrapped securely at his waist.

"You're not stealing me for business, are you?" He shoots me a look I've seen time and time before, that look that tells me he's weary of what I'm about to drag him into; plenty times have I deceived him on days off to fix emergencies. He picks up the tooth brush he's left here for himself and begins as I finish.

"No, no... Since it's been three of us this week, and we've finished more than I expected, I'm letting the others handle it when they get back." I chuckle at this, and so does Toru. "There aren't any emergencies to take care of today so I thought we both deserved a day of fun. Especially since it's your birthday." The last sentence seems to surprise him, as if he's forgotten his own...

"Oh shit, I forgot!" he exclaims, spitting foamy tooth paste across the vanity and mirror before him. It sends a rupture of laughter from both of our lips. "I've been so busy, I totally blanked," he finally breathes, hands releasing their grips at his sides to rinse his mouth.

I slide my fingers through his damp hair, giving it a gentle ruffle. "Doesn't surprise me, Tocchan. Maybe the years are catching up to you faster than usual, eh?" I tease. He slaps my arm away gently, but I don't have to look to know that he's grinning, laughter still at its corners. "Get dressed already. I showered before you got up."

He mumbles a confirmation as I shut the bathroom door and head for the closet. For a moment I lean against the door when it shuts behind me. The last moments of the previous night flash through me, accompanied by the glimpse of his completely nude form behind frosted glass I'd seen only moments ago. These feelings aren't at all new to me. In fact, I felt their first flutters during our years in school. When I kissed him in front of his step-sister 15 years ago it was not just for his benefit. But I've always known better than to act rashly. I didn't push for more than just a friendship with Toru. As I pull my shirt off, a wave of regret tries to crash through my rib cage, but I don't let it. I don't believe in regrets, and I refuse to harbor them. I spent the last decade knowing full well that this was the better option— to always be by his side as his closest friend. There would never be any consequences, and no one would be disappointed. I imagine things with his uncle and aunt still loom over his thoughts, just as the image of my family thousands of miles away looms over mine.

Pulling a shirt off a hanger and slipping it over my head, the thought that a mother's love knows no bound echoes in my head. Each time it crosses my mind, I question it. Any time I think of confessing to Toru, I think of what my mother will feel when she finds out. Even the opinion of my step-father and half-brother concern me. To think that I could destroy that perfect image of a family instills a calm fear in me.

I can't help but laugh at myself. Fifteen years have passed, but my issues have yet to change.


End file.
